which is why writing for your own pleasure is a vocation not a career for what-- 90% of novel writers? 

Ayup.  And welcome welcome!  Good to see new budding vict*cough* aspiring dreamers

Here I am seeking a name
for a form of poetry
which has been unknownst, for lame
to be seven squared.
Seven lines of just seven
syllables, so iambic?
Perhaps.  Rhyming? Still unkown.

I reccomend "The Constant Art of Being a Writer" by N. M. Kelby.  It's a great look into all facets of writing, whether you write casually or as a profession.  The sections are also very convenient if there are things you are simply never going to do or to find that little piece of advice you want to read again.  Everything from writer's block and the muse to writer's communities and residencies to outling and review.

And piks are needed for???   LOL   Like your piks.   

Apparantly I was required to back up my faux vanity remark, so I did.  Which ALSO reminds me: I'm now in touch with my aunt, who is actually in the business of writing, about making said manuscripts both better in the general sense and better in the marketable sense.  Another step forward to more rejection letters!

Jim butcher is my hero, I think my ultimate dream is to someday be able to give a copy of MY published book for him to keep, just so I can tell him that he was the inspiration that kept me going. He's an awesome fantastic mane.

While I agree that Jim is a great guy, I have to say that his mane is rather lackluster.  Especially compared to my own flowing, curly, shiny one that I shamelessly use to garner female attention

Still waiting to get my rejection letter (or not!), but it should only be less than a week now.  The anticipation is torture!  But I'm still working on making the manuscript better for submission if it ever comes to that, and working on manuscripts for both other books in the series envisioned as well as random side projects.

Inspiration flees.
Writing becomes a chore, so:
How can I o'ercome?

It makes me want to curse and spit,
that a man can stand and hit
another with a rattan yard
and think it's fun to hit him hard.

And yet, the same male folk
get a boo-boo and whine and choke
and if a splinter they should take
can wake the dead with the fuss they make.

To think that men extol the manly
only to turn out quite pansy
hit for hit is turnabout
yet oh so many choose to pout
instead of thinking to fight fair
they bitch for being inferior
seems they forgot the cardinal rule
when stricken do not be a tool!

This Monty Python moment brought to you by Karl TenBrew and Mt. Dew ((they didn't pay me a cent for the advertising, cheapskates)):

((Moosey-moose Mooseburger))
I’m made of moose,
I have a bun,
Mayonnaise and mustard too-oo,
Lettuce and tomato,
But never will I Moo-oo.

((Lusty chorus singers))
He’s made of moose,
He has a bun,
Mayonnaise and mustard too-oo,
Lettuce and tomato,
But never will we Moo-oo.

He’s a Mooseburger and he’s alright,
Being eaten is his plight!

((Encouraged Moosey-moose Mooseburger))
I tired to get
Some special sauce,
But then I was deny-ied.
I’m still just a mooseburger,
So through the night I cry-ied.

((Lusty chorus singers, a bit hesitant))
He tired to get
Some special sauce,
But then he was deny-ied.
He’s still just a mooseburger,
So through… the night we… cry-ied.

He’s a Mooseburger and he’s alright,
Being eaten is his plight!

((Emotional Moosey-moose Mooseburger))
I always was
So lonely
Before I was a gui-uy.
I wish I was a pastry,
Just like my dear Pa-py!

((Lusty chorus singers, confused and skeered))
He always was
So lonely,
Before he was…a gui-uy…
We wish that we… were….pastries?
*Chorus is unstead-dy!*

((Me))
So the chorus was afraid,
The mooseburger they left.
And as they ran, he cried and cried,
Of friends he was bereft!